


Reset

by purple_cube



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_cube/pseuds/purple_cube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Selina Kyle met Natasha Romanov.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reset

 

1\. Gotham  
  
Her police record builds at a slow but steady rate from the age of thirteen. At first she’s determined to learn from her mistakes, to be smarter and faster and stronger than them. But after that first stint in juvenile hall – and the immediate escape – she stops caring, relishing the thrill of the chase almost as much as the burglary that got her locked up in the first place. The heists become bigger and bolder, and she’s willing to admit that, yes, the close calls and the desperate clutches of her sleeve here, and of her foot there, get her heart racing in a way that nothing else can.  
  
Once, they have her cornered in an alleyway, three burly police officers who leer and catcall and imply that they’re after a little more than law and order. She doesn’t feel the slightest remorse at leveling all three before sauntering out of the alley like the cat that got the cream.  
  
When the Joker starts to make headlines, she decides that she’s had enough of this batshit crazy city and wants to start afresh. Her passport gets her as far as the first security check at Gotham City Airport, where it is scanned and whatever red flag it raises brings life to the official’s previously soulless eyes.  
  
He nods to a nearby colleague, who steps up to the desk. “Could you please come with me, Ma’am?”  
  
So she dons a fake smile and replies with as much sweetness as she can muster. “Of course.”  
  
She joins four others in a waiting area in a corner of the large hall. A woman with long red hair that sails down the length of her back stands at the desk as the officer leafs through her passport. He starts to speak as Selina takes a seat next to a gruff-looking man in a dark suit, leather briefcase resting carefully on his lap.  
  
“Miss Rushman, you appear to have spent a considerable amount of time in Russia. Is there any particular reason why?”  
  
“Family,” is the brusque answer, given in an accent that betrays the slightest hint of something other than American. Out of the corner of her eye, Selina notices the man in the adjacent seat perk up, sitting a little straighter as he strains to get a look at the woman’s face.  
  
The officer surveys the redhead for a moment longer, before handing back the passport and nodding toward to the exit. Satisfied, she turns away from the desk and starts to leave, taking the time to glance at each one of the waiting room’s occupants with each stride. Her attention comes to rest at the man to Selina’s left, and a suggestive smile ghosts across her lips, but is gone almost as quickly. Her eye then catches Selina’s, and she holds her gaze for a moment.  
  
“Selina Kyle,” calls out the officer.  
  
Her gaze moves involuntarily to the man behind the desk, and she rises from her seat. When she looks to her right once more, the other woman is gone.  
  
  
2\. Bratislava  
  
The ‘clean slate’ gets her as far as Eastern Europe without so much as a second glance at her passport. In Prague she wanders, listless, weaving in and out of crowds of tourists that are sober and somber by day, drunk and disorderly at night. She envies them, envies the simplicity of their lives. They walk and eat and drink and sleep. Rinse and repeat.  
  
In Budapest, she lingers at a café on the banks of the Danube, unseeing eyes following boats and cars and people as coffee after coffee runs cold under her fingertips. It takes her four days to come to the conclusion that there is nothing for her here, no surface to anchor herself onto.  
  
Bratislava is between the two bigger and brasher cities, and proves to be a world away from both. Here, she rests and gathers herself – and her thoughts. Bruce Wayne, the Batman, whichever one had come first, had given her access to a new life, and it surprises her to realize that she has no idea how to begin it.  
  
So when the only five-star hotel in town hosts a charity ball, she turns to the thing she knows best, and the thing that knows her best. Her mask.  
  
She smiles and dances and flirts, the decorative lace shielding her as much as metal armor would. Her hand slips beneath layers of clothing as she whispers empty promises into gullible mouths and ears, credit cards sliding deftly out of pockets and into her purse at a steady pace.  
  
Eventually, boredom claws at her, and she takes a seat at the bar, accepting the wine glass offered to her by the bartender. She surveys the large hall leisurely, before her attention falls on one particular occupant. He is tall with closely cropped brown hair, and clearly the center of attention amongst his circle of acquaintances.  
  
Their eyes meet, and she smiles and raises her glass. He nods as he watches her for a moment, his curiosity evident to her even from across the room, before his attention is pulled away by another man who stands at his side and speaks softly into his ear. They both glance towards the entrance, and Selina is about to follow their gaze when her view is blocked by a figure approaching the bar. A decidedly female figure, wearing an eye-catching scarlet dress that starts beneath her collarbone and trails along the ground. The smooth silk brushes Selina’s bare knee as the woman leans against the ledge of the bar beside her seat.  
  
Short, crimson hair is held back under a black mask of intricately woven lace that covers almost all of the right side of her face, but very little of the left. She raises a finger at the bartender, who nods and reaches for two glasses. As she waits for her drinks, she moves a step closer to Selina before discretely leaning across.  
  
“If you’re looking for a _mark_ , sweetheart,” she says archly into Selina’s ear, “You’d better keep looking. This one’s mine.”  
  
Selina turns to her and smiles sweetly. “Relax, _Red_. Did you take a look at his shoes?” she asks, gesturing over her shoulder with her free hand. “I have lipstick worth more than that.”  
  
Red’s eyes flicker to her lips then, and Selina exaggerates a pout as she leans closer. The other woman’s mouth twitches before straightening once more. She glances over her shoulder for a moment before she speaks. “Try _blue eyes_ over there. Swiss. Wealthy family, likes to flash his name and his cash. And his shoes look expensive,” she adds as an afterthought.  
  
Selina shrugs. “Seems a little easy. What’s so special about yours?”  
  
The woman watches her carefully for a moment before replying. “Arms dealer.”  
  
“Sounds rich,” she quips, raising an eyebrow. “And dangerous.”  
  
Eyes flash beneath the lace mask. “Not as dangerous as me.” There’s an edge to her voice that makes Selina’s breath catch in her throat.  
  
Before she has a chance to respond, the redhead reaches for the two glasses that have been placed in front of her and turns away. Selina watches her make her way to her companion, her _mark_ , handing him the glass before taking a sip from her own as she glances back at the bar.  
  
Sighing, Selina gets to her feet, and heads for a man with blue eyes and expensive-looking shoes.  
  
  
3\. London  
  
If Bratislava was about dipping her toe into the water, then London proves to be a sleek, glorious dive into the deep blue ocean. Mark after mark give her what she needs, and she takes without mercy, without remorse. She’s more careful than before though, mindful of the purity of her slate and of what she had given for it, as well as what had been taken.  
  
There’s an unusually clear sky tonight, and from the rooftop of the second tallest building in the city, she can see more complexities to the horizon than ever before. She loves this moment, the calm before the storm, as she prepares herself for the job. Multiple scenarios run through her mind, and she works through each one methodically to the end, knowing precisely what she needs to do for each eventuality. They all reach the same conclusion: her walking away from here with what she came for.  
  
She takes one last deep breath before rising from her crouched position at the edge of the building.  
  
“I thought I recognized you in Bratislava.”  
  
She spins around, hand poised at her side, tracing the reassuring sliver of the knife that hides in a concealed pocket.  
  
Her visitor continues speaking as she steps out from the shadow. “Selina Kyle, born May 11th 1984, Gotham City.”  
  
The hair is blonde, long and straight this time, but her poise and manner are instantly recognizable. “Nice wig,” she counters.  
  
The other woman shrugs before continuing. “It’s odd, there is nothing on your file. And I mean, _literally_ , nothing. A name and a date and place of birth. That’s it.”  
  
“Maybe I like to keep my nose clean,” she counters.  
  
Red, or _blonde_ in this case, surveys her, beginning at her tall heels and taking in the black catsuit along the way. Her gaze comes to rest on Selina’s face, and the heavy strip of black plastic that covers the area around her eyes.  
  
The corner of her lip curls into a lop-sided smile. “No. That’s not it.”  
  
Selina steps closer, careful to move slowly and noiselessly. “So, what is it this time? Am I stepping on your toes again? Because, frankly, I’m a big fan of reciprocity. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.” She’s less than a meter away now, and stops, standing tall. “And I believe it’s your turn to get the claws out, _sweetheart_.”  
  
“The marks are different this time,” is the measured reply. “But their locations are the same,“ she says with a glance behind her at the entrance to the building. “And your presence is compromising our surveillance.”  
  
Selina edges a fraction closer, and can see the other woman tense beneath her own dark grey uniform. “ _Our_ surveillance?” she inquires.  
  
“My back-up is on its way. You need to leave. _Now_.”  
  
She stares back defiantly. “I let you win in Bratislava. This one’s mine.”  
  
“This isn’t about us,” is the urgent reply. There is a moment’s pause before her mouth softens. “Your mark will still be here when we’re done. All I’m asking is that you take tonight off.”  
  
Slowly, Selina exhales. “Fine. But you owe me,” she adds as she brushes past.  
  
“I’ll know where to find you.”  
  
She doesn’t ask how, instead calling out over her shoulder, “I hope that’s a promise.”  
  
  
4\. Paris  
  
She was seven when her mother started cutting out pictures and photographs from newspapers and sticking them into a scrapbook. The book didn’t have a name, didn’t need to, because they all knew what it was. A book of dreams, of wishes and desires, of a life that she so badly wanted and could never possibly have.  
  
It wasn’t until she was much older that Selina’s memories of those pictures were triggered. A burglary here, a con there. She lost track of the number of times she would pick up a photo frame in someone else’s home, her focus not on the smiling faces in the foreground, but set firmly on the structures in the background. Even later, she learned their names. The Leaning Tower of Pisa. The Parthenon. The Eiffel Tower.  
  
So she sits outside a Parisian café and looks up at the Eiffel Tower and raises a glass to the book of dreams, to a life that never was and never could be. She doesn’t allow herself to think about those times often, to wallow in the what ifs and what might have beens. It would have driven her crazy a hell of a long time ago if she did. But sometimes, she relents and opens her mind to the memories of family, of a mother and a father and a sister. Of a life shared rather than an existence in solitude.  
  
She is still gazing up at the Tower when a shadow steals her light, and her attention. Her vision refocuses to the woman as she first approaches the table and then slides into the seat next to her.  
  
She greets her with warmth that isn’t entirely feigned. “Morning, Red.”  
  
The other woman looks at her briefly before reaching for the thin piece of paper titled _Menu_. “It’s Natasha,” she replies without looking up.  
  
“Well, _Natasha_ , I seem to remember that you owe me.”  
  
“You went back the next day,” she recounts quietly. “The job went without a hitch, and you were in and out in less than ten minutes. Interpol tracked the money as far as a Swiss account at the same bank that your friend from Bratislava is a board member of. From there, they lost the trail.” She looks up, a smile playing on her lips. “I didn’t.”  
  
The waiter approaches, and she indicates that she doesn’t require anything with a small shake of the head. He turns away, and her gaze returns to Selina once more. “So I don’t see how I owe you anything.”  
  
Selina shrugs. “A day’s lost wage, at the very least.”  
  
Natasha rolls her eyes. “Maybe if it was a legitimate wage. But seeing as you stole it, like I said, I don’t owe you.”  
  
“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she concedes and leans back into the chair once more. “And that reminds me – how _did_ you find me?”  
  
Natasha’s mouth twitches. “You might be good enough to evade national and international police, but your trail of destruction is certainly wide enough for us to pick up on.”  
  
An _us_ to add to the _our_ during their previous encounter. “Are you ever going to tell me who you work for?”  
  
That brings a full smile to her lips for the first time. “Where’s the fun in that?”  
  
*  
  
She doesn’t see Natasha for another three days. It gives her enough time to carry out surveillance for the next con, a house in the Parisian suburbs that used to contain laughter and joy and smiling photographs. Now, there’s only a man with too much money and not enough manners. So she watches him, casually collides with him on the Metro, smiles innocently as they pass in a shopping center. _Planting the seed_.  
  
It’s dark when she gets back to her hotel room, but she instantly recognizes the fluttering curtains by the window, which certainly hadn’t been open when she left this morning. Her body stiffens as she glances around the room, clicking the door shut behind her.  
  
Finally, she stops and concentrates on the darkened corner by the entrance to the bathroom.  
  
“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with S.” Her tone is playful, but her fingers continue to caress the hilt of the knife that hugs the top of her thigh.  
  
The shadow flutters and contorts until it forms a body. Natasha’s body.  
  
“ _S_ ”?  
  
Selina unwraps the belt of her jacket and drops it to the floor. Slowly, she approaches and then circles the other woman. Natasha stays motionless, watching her from the corner of her eye as she passes.  
  
“Spy,” Selina suggests, though it’s far from a definitive answer. She finishes her loop, returning to face Natasha once more. “Slayer. Swindler. Siren. Take your pick.”  
  
She’s close enough to feel the soft breath that flows from Natasha’s slightly parted lips. Even without her ‘working boots’ on, Selina is several inches taller, but she doesn’t think that it’s much of an advantage if things were to get ugly.  
  
“Why are you here?” she asks quietly, not quite sure whether she’s going to like the answer.  
  
Natasha extinguishes the remaining space between them, stopping only when their mouths are almost merged. “Something else beginning with S,” she offers.  
  
*  
  
It surprises her how slowly they move, as if they have all the time in the world. It’s a lie, of course, but they both revel in it, a rare luxury that neither of them can often afford.  
  
There are languid kisses and chaste strokes of exposed skin, until finally, Natasha pushes her onto her back. She makes her way down Selina’s body, pausing to take one nipple into her mouth as she twirls the other beneath her fingertips. When Selina moans, she stops, satisfied at the elicited response, and continues further down the bed.  
  
She places kisses on the inside of her thighs, edging fractionally close to where Selina wants her – needs her – to be. She’s not going to beg, but one hand forms a fist in Natasha’s hair as the other claws at her shoulder, and it’s as good as a spoken word.  
  
And then her mouth is right where she needs it, kissing, licking, teasing her. She closes her eyes, narrowing her senses and her focus to the point at which their bodies meet.  
  
Natasha’s curled tongue darts in and out of her as she catches the labia between her fingers and rubs to a steady rhythm. A moment later, she changes tact, pushing one finger inside, quickly followed by another, as she sucks her clit before gently nipping at the sensitive spot with her teeth.  
  
Selina cries out at the sharpness of the contact, her body arching into Natasha’s mouth. Her mind registers a puff of laughter from the other woman, and she makes a mental note to get her revenge later.  
  
And then Natasha settles, the pace and intensity of her rhythm quickening. Her fingers move in tune with her mouth, and the pleasure steadily builds inside Selina. The word _please_ falls from her lips before she even realizes that it’s gone, and Natasha’s fingers curl inside her, generating a new intensity. Finally, she sucks sharply, and Selina cries out one last time, fists clenched amongst the sheets as she comes.  
  
When her breathing slows, she becomes aware of Natasha moving up the bed, her hands and lips leaving sticky trails across her torso along the way. Slowly, Selina opens her eyes to see the other woman watching her, amusement tugging at her mouth.  
  
“I seem to recall that you were a fan of reciprocity,” she says suggestively as she licks the remaining moisture from her fingers.  
  
Selina leans towards her, using her weight to roll Natasha onto her back. “I certainly am.”  
  
*  
  
It’s dawn when Selina stirs, a draught from the open window cooling her exposed back. She lifts her head just enough to see Natasha’s clothed figure near the door.  
  
She pauses when she notices the movement on the bed, and seems apologetic as their eyes meet. “I can’t stay.”  
  
“I didn’t expect you to.”  
  
There’s just enough light in the room for Selina to make out a final smile, small but honest. She knows that it’s a thing of rarity for people like them. People with masks.  
  
And then Natasha slips through the door and out of her life again.  
  
  
5\. Florence  
  
In Naples, she reads the situation wrong, spectacularly so, and gets in too fast and too deep. Bruce Wayne rises from the dead and rides to her rescue, and she barely manages to stop herself from punching the smug grin from his face.  
  
“I had it covered,” she spits out as he hovers above her and extends his hand for her to take, limp bodies scattered around the two of them. She does take it, but only after a moment’s pause, allowing him to lift her from the spot where she had crouched to avoid gunfire. Gunfire that he had cut short with a metal boomerang.  
  
“”You’re welcome,” he mutters as she drops his hand and walks past him. As she passes her would-be assassin, the boomerang glistens under the streetlight, and she registers that it is shaped as a bat.  
  
 _Not quite ready to start his next life, then_.  
  
*  
  
He tempts her with the pearls, saying that he needs a favor.  
  
She sits opposite him at a café in Florence and smiles at every little thing he says. And then he looks over her shoulder, raises his glass and nods his head. She half turns, first to respond to the waiter, and then to catch sight of the familiar figure who is the recipient of this whole charade. _Alfred Pennyworth_.  
  
When she turns back, a ghost from her own past is watching her from a table at the edge of the café’s cordoned area. The hair is maybe an inch longer and a deeper shade of red, but everything other detail is just as she remembers. Selina’s lips curl into a small smile, earning her her own nod of recognition from Natasha.  
  
She doesn’t realize that Bruce notices until he turns his head nonchalantly, surveying their surroundings before facing her once more. “Someone you know?”  
  
“A lifetime ago,” she says softly, watching as Natasha and her male companion rise to leave. She turns her attention back to her own company, and Bruce nods as if he understands her answer perfectly. And maybe he does. Maybe Red does too.  
  
And maybe she’s not the only person to have a shot at another life.

 


End file.
